Page 1 of Butter You Up
CHAPTER1
MOLLY
The signfor the city limits flashes past like a green UFO in the dark—Welcome to Fork Lick. Population: 4,356. I’m not even on the highway, just a little two-lane road in upstate New York, far from my hometown in Washington.
I’m late—much later than I thought I would be. The sun had set long ago, and I had to pull over twice to let Ethel, the woman who was letting me park Vaniel on her property for the summer, know that I was running late.
Her messages back were concerning.
Ethel
It’s no trouble at all. These old bones keep me awake most nights, anyway.
I’ll watch for your lights.
And please, dear, keep an eye out for Baabara. She likes to roam at night.
There are no context clues as to who Barbara is, but I’ll keep an eye out for anyone “roaming” at night. A sleepwalker? Or is she Ethel’s family? Friend? Partner? That’s a weird typo, too. Why wouldn’t the phone autocorrect to Barbara?
I toss the thought aside and shake my hands out from their death grip on the wheel. I’ve driven thousands of miles, but I still don’t enjoy driving at night. Maybe it’s trauma from encountering too many drunk drivers, or maybe it’s me losing faith in Vaniel, my trusty ten-year-old Ram van.
He’s not doing so hot right now, which is why I’m going to park at Bedd Fellows Farm for a while. I had to pause my quest to visit every lower forty-eight state when I realized my batteries would not make the trip.
Boondocking, legally parking my van for free in the wilderness, is my preferred way to spend the night, but I needed somewhere to stay with proper facilities. I found Bedd Fellows Farm on an app called Roots2Roam, which connects vanlifers with people who will let you park on their property. While some places you pay to stay, Ethel and I have arranged a deal: I’ll be mooch-docking instead, meaning I get to park for free in exchange for working eight hours a day Saturday and Sunday on their strawberry farm. Plus, I get to use their facilities,and Ethel said I’ll be parking right next to a full bathroom in their barn.
Finally, I see the Bedd Fellows Farm entrance. There’s a wooden sign hanging off a post with a row of silhouetted barns above the farm name. There’s a freshly painted matching addition hanging off the bottom that says, “Pick Your Own Strawberries.”
As I turn up the driveway, I notice a big house off to the left with lights still on, casting shadows over the lawn—I assume that’s where Ethel is. Suddenly, there’s a sharp bend around a cluster of trees, and my headlights catch on a shape right in the middle of the road. I slam on my brakes before I hit it, causing a bunch of shit in the back to slam forward.
I hope to god that my laptop’s okay.
A dust cloud catches in my headlights and gives the lump on the road a bit of an ethereal glow. The lump stares at me, jaw working and tail flicking.
A fucking sheep.
There’s a goddamn sheep blocking the road.
A door slams. “Colleen!” A woman’s voice calls out. “Baabara’s blocking the driveway again!”
The shout has come from the house, and there’s an older woman taking the steps down from the front door. She’s pronounced the name with a bleating “baaa” at the beginning. Maybe Baabara wasn’t a typo after all?
Beyond the few stairs, on the other side of the lawn, is what looks like a small building. I squint to make out what it is in the dark, but I can’t tell. It’s too big to be a doghouse. Maybe a shed? Or a child’s playhouse?
By the time the woman is halfway to my van, the house’s screen door opens again, and a younger woman about my age comes out. She’s wrapping a bathrobe around her pajama-clad body and hustles to catch up with, I’m assuming, Ethel.
I eye Baabara, and debate the possibility of a guard sheep trained to attack strangers. Before I decide, Ethel and Colleen are at my door, and I roll Vaniel’s window down. I’m sure I look like shit—it’s late and I’m tired. I haven’t had a proper shower in a few days, and my long, curly hair is up in a messy bun at the top of my head. My pale skin probably looks ghostly in the dark recesses of my van.
“You must be Molly,” the elderly lady says. She introduces herself and her granddaughter, who’s too busy staring at the sheep with her hands on her hips.
“I think I’m going to have to call Ethan,” Colleen states.
Ethel makes a tsking noise while Colleen pulls her phone out of her pocket and steps away to make the call.
“How was your drive, dear?” Ethel asks.
“Good. Sorry I’m so late.”
Ethel waves my apology away and smiles. “We’re so glad to have you here. You’re our first vanlifer!”
